Alfirin
by Certh
Summary: *canonically aligned* Part I of the Colours of Dawn series. Hope is an ever-glowing ember, kindled by the smallest of occurrences.
1. Prologue

**Alfirin  
><strong>-

Part I of the project titled _Colours of Dawn_

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><p><span>Author's Note:<span> In August 2011, this began as an attempt at a believable tale featuring three-dimensional characters, set in book-verse Middle-earth without disrupting canon. A skim of the previously posted stories made me realise I was not satisfied with the final result, and thus Parts I, II and III have been revised. I hope you enjoy what follows. The sharing of thoughts is very much appreciated.

Disclaimer: I own nothing other than a store of ideas and characters you don't recognise. The rest is the product of Professor Tolkien's most wonderful imagination.

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><p><em><strong>Prologue<strong>_

Daylight touched the snow-clad peak of Mount Mindolluin, painting its white helm with glinting gold. The clear hue shone down on the mountain side, bathing the great city at its foot in pale luminescence. An east breeze hummed through the busy lower levels of Minas Tirith, but it was cold and nipping, chasing the sun's warmth away. The early spring that had come wasn't yet felt in the stone fortress, save perhaps in the Houses of Healing up in the sixth circle.

There the tall trees and fragrant bushes and beds of flowers were already awakening from their winter sleep, bursting into new leaf and blossom. A most delicate, soft scent seemed to hang about them, heralding the change of season and bringing comfort amidst the breaths of persisting chill.

Going around that green tapestry was a thick hedge of shrubbery, nearly five feet tall, broken only once along the side facing the main road near the massive bastion that divided the city levels in two, and that break was the first entryway into the Houses of Healing. From it a cobbled path went straight forward, with lesser ones branching off to snake through the flowering lawns.

In the middle of garden and greensward stood the elegant buildings accommodating those grievously ill. And they were indeed fair, made of light stone and boasting lofty arches and gently sloping roofs, the detail carven into the masonry beautiful in its graceful simplicity.

Currently, a good number of the high-roofed, airy rooms were unoccupied, and an easy silence filled those empty places, fanning out beyond them to shift into the quiet voices of healers and patients.

In one sunlit corner of the herb garden, a little girl buried her nose in a patch of flowering plants and then quickly withdrew, sneezing. She laughed. The older woman standing beside her gazed at the child fondly, a touch of good humour tracing her features. As the girl straightened, her guardian picked up something lying on the bench by them. She looked at it for a moment before turning her attention to her charge.

"This is yours, Idrin. Keep it well." She presented the child with it, her lips curving upwards at the delight in the young girl's face.

"Thank you, Mistress Inneth!" The child looked up at her with bright eyes, clutching the gift tightly to her chest.

The woman dipped her head, a dark lock escaping the veil that covered her hair. "Now, go to your mother."

With a beaming smile, the girl turned on her heel and set off. The hurried patter of small feet punctured the calmness as she weaved her way through gardens and corridors, fading when she entered a well-lit chamber.

The room was decorated in simple fashion, holding a comfortable bed, a couple of cushioned chairs, a low desk and a sizeable chest of drawers. All was made from tan wood, and the ornate carvings it was sculpted into lent a pleasingly lavish feel. A thick, many-paged book bound in dark red leather sat atop the desk, along with a finely shaped, three-branched candlestick wrought of polished brass and a small assortment of aged scrolls. On the chest of drawers was an adorned ivory comb and a hand-held mirror.

Overlooking the gardens was a tall, arched window, wide enough and unglazed but fitted with hinged shutters opening inwards. A woman sat there, clothed in a gown of embroidered midnight-blue, gazing outside at the flourishing display of spring as sunlight and cool air flooded in to lessen the coldness of stone. She relished the clear draft, but the intake of a deep breath constricted her chest, bringing about a violent cough. The fit was mercifully brief: it wore out quickly, and the stinging ache that came with it soon subsided. Regaining her ease, the woman pressed the linen handkerchief to her lips one last time and set it on her lap just as a blur of colour rushed into the chamber.

With a swish of ochre and white fabric, the young girl settled herself on the floor at her feet. Arranging the skirts of her dress about her folded legs, she looked up at the adult.

"Mistress Inneth taught me about the plants in the garden. She said she would teach me how to make infusions from them." The high voice was overflowing with unconcealed excitement, the child's face bright and lit up as if by an ardent flame.

A few lines around the eyes and mouth creased the woman's skin as she beamed affectionately down at her daughter. Sea-grey eyes accentuated her pallid complexion and lean cheeks all the more, but the sickness that wracked her body was hidden behind the smile that touched her colourless lips.

"That is wonderful, my darling," she replied to the girl's almost palpable enthusiasm in a smooth, melodious voice, her gaze warm. Her youngest child was only eight summers of age, and yet she displayed such fondness for all green things that grew as was seldom found in children of her years. Verily, it was that same liking which had drawn her to the healers and their work, for there were some among those skilled people in the Houses of Healing who were wise in the herb-lore of old, and her young daughter had grown fascinated by their art.

Idrin was very often in their company, taking much delight in watching them and helping with whatever small tasks she could. The women were entertained by her eagerness and indulged in answering her questions, teaching her simple things when she requested it.

It brought joy to the mother to see her daughter so full of cheer and laughter then, banishing from mind her own solemn condition which had brought her to these fair houses.

The Lady Elthian had been in the care of the healers for a little over a year, suffering from a disease of the lungs that robbed her of physical strength and endurance. Her laugh was heard seldom, and the illness had taken its toll so that sometimes even breathing brought a strain upon her. But the smile she now held for her daughter was true, reminiscent of her old self.

"And she gave me this," still aflutter and with unabated fervour the little girl went on, suddenly turning her attention to where her hands lay clasped in her lap. Little fingers tightened around the healer's gift and she drew out a book of moderate size which had to that moment lain hidden in the folds of her dress. She presented it to her mother. "It has drawings and descriptions of all the healing plants in Gondor, and even some that are found in Rohan and beyond the Misty Mountains." Grey as calm waters at twilight, her eyes shone with the vividness of her delight.

Elthian raised a slender hand and brushed a wavy lock of dark hair from her daughter's forehead. Despite her tender years, Idrin expressed genuine interest for the art of the healers, preferring their company to the time she spent learning subjects and skills required for girls of her class and upbringing. The wisp of a flitting grin brushed the woman's features.

"That was very kind of Inneth," she said softly, turning her gaze to regard the book properly. Unmarred by use or wear, the cover was fallow-green in colour, embossed at the front with the flowering sprig of a slender plant, and from between the pages peeked the thin ribbon of a bound bookmark. Elthian took the volume carefully from her daughter's hands as she offered it to her and began turning the parchment leaves with gentle fingers. Lore of years uncounted was hoarded in each page, and the woman recognised that those writings as were within were precious indeed, for such wisdom of times long past was greatly diminished in their days. Without doubt it was a book to be treasured, holding valuable knowledge accumulated by healers and herbalists over many centuries.

Her gaze lingered on the page before her and her fingertips hovered above the fine parchment leaf as she began reading silently to herself. Stillness fell and Idrin, nearly lulled by the muted shuffling sound, drew herself up and sought to find what had kindled her mother's interest. That page from the book was one she had seen before, and the image of the long-leaved plant that the scribe had so artfully sketched there was familiar to her: kingsfoil it was commonly named, yet it had no virtue the healers knew of, except its invigorating scent. The letters on the page faced away from her, but her eyes found the verses near the bottom without difficulty:

_When the black breath blows _  
><em>and death's shadow grows <em>  
><em>and all lights pass, <em>  
><em>come athelas! come athelas! <em>  
><em>Life to the dying <em>  
><em>In the king's hand lying!<em>*

Not for the first time trying to work out the meaning of the old rhyme, the little girl turned to her mother. "Mama, will a king ever return to Gondor?"

Elthian looked up, startled by the sudden question, and rested the book beside her on the stone window-sill. She met her daughter's gaze, filled with innocent curiosity, but did not have an answer to give. A King there had been once, verily, but he had entered the gates of Minas Morgul and was lost, leaving no heir, and for many generations since then did the Stewards govern the High City in his name. Her brother Denethor was presently the twenty-sixth Ruling Steward,¹ and the return of Elendil's rightful heir to reclaim the throne had long before him passed into legend.

"I do not know, my love," she replied at last, "but he might return still, one day."

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><p>* From <em>The Return of the King<em>, Book 5, Chapter VIII: The Houses of Healing.  
>-<p>

¹ '[Denethor II] was first son and third child of Ecthelion . . .' (_The History of Middle-earth: The Peoples of Middle-earth_, Chapter VII: The Heirs of Elendil, _The Ruling Stewards of Gondor_)


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It was sometime past the sunset-hour when she first heard it: a shrill cry coming from above the fields of the Pelennor, an unearthly screech that turned her blood to ice. She froze mid-step, a shuddering chill awakening some nameless terror within her. Her breast heaved with each laboured breath, heart thudding painfully in her chest. For many endless seconds she stood as still as a statue, wide eyes staring unseeingly. Then, as the echo of the piercing shriek died away, she brought a hand to her breast and breathed deeply. Gathering her skirts, she strode forward to cross the darkening lawn. She climbed the short flight of steps hewn into the stone of the wall and pressed against the parapet that ran the whole length of the paved rampart-walk, looking down.

Six hundred feet below the plain looked dim and bare, but to the left, near the Gate, dark shapes circled and swooped and rose again. They were winged beasts of great size, wheeling above something on the ground, hovering over tiny black specks that moved erratically. Those spots that tried to evade the flying creatures were horses, she realised. Another sharp wail made her cower and take a quick step back from the parapet, pressing her hands to her ears. A trumpet call cut suddenly through the terrifying screech, its note long and high. The young woman's heart thumped with renewed force against her chest and she choked on a sudden intake of breath.

She dropped her arms to her sides and forced her rooted limbs to move forward. Hands grasping the parapet tightly, she leant over and looked out. Three of the riders were running on foot towards the Gate, thrown from their mounts, but the fourth remained in the saddle and was riding back to them. The flying beasts circled above them still, like terrible birds of prey. The young woman's wide eyes darted from one rider to the other frantically, her pulse racing.

A white light then appeared as if out of nowhere and sped towards the men, growing even more bright and dazzling. One of the fell creatures dived. A flare of blazing radiance shot into the heavens, and the woman thought she saw a figure, clad in brilliant white. The winged beast gave a shriek and veered round; its companions gained height and followed it eastward. She watched their dark bulks disappear into the vast brown cloud that dominated the East and let out a deep breath. Turning her gaze at last to the fields, she saw a dimmed white glimmer pass from sight under the outer walls: the hunted men and their saviour had entered the City.

At that hour the young woman was all at once aware of the darkness that had fallen, much deeper than the pastel shades of twilight. As though jolted awake from a dream, she felt the wrinkled fabric in her hand and opened her palm, smoothing the cloth with gentle fingers. Then she came down from the wall.

She picked her way through the flowering greenswards laid out between the buildings that made up the Houses of Healing, her brisk footsteps the only sound in the calmness of the early night. It was pleasantly cool, and in the quiet that reigned at that moment the domain of the healers seemed secluded from the rest of the City. It was as though the dread of the fell beasts had been but a fading dream. As she reached her destination, a hum went up from afar, rising steadily to a clamour and cheering. Looking over the shrubbery that was the border to the Houses in the distance, she could discern a press of people, following two horsemen to the Citadel. Her footsteps slowed to a halt, and her heart began beating frantically again. She stood gazing at the crowd with bright eyes. For a long moment she stared at them, but then, with a shake of her head, moved away towards the nearest wing of the Houses.

The door she pushed open led to a dark room. Taking a step inside, she reached with one hand and tended a tall oil-lamp that stood on a near table, illuminating the space with pale yellow light. It was a storage-room: rows upon rows of shelves lined the walls above short cabinets, and a couple of low tables were placed there also, and a long, narrow bench in one corner. Jars and bottles, flasks and bowls of various shapes and sizes filled the shelves, some containing liquids and others powders or dried herbs. On the worktop that was attached to the cabinets were two bronze sets of mortar and pestle, and brass balance scales, and empty phials. A modest, still-burning hearth with a large kettle for boiling water was nearby, and sprigs of freshly culled herbs were hung from hooks in the wall to dry.

The young woman walked to the cabinet at the far side and deposited the small bundle she held on the work-surface. The light from the lamp behind her bathed her form. She was clothed in the garb of the healers: a pearl-white chemise under a sleeveless steel-blue kirtle, a thin veil of light colour covering her hair and fastened at the nape of the neck. Clear sea-grey eyes framed by dark lashes were set above high cheekbones, and her small nose turned up at the tip.

The healer unfolded the cloth before her and placed the grey-green leaves it held in a deep bowl, pouring boiling water over them and covering the container. Letting the tea steep for a few minutes, she strained the liquid into a cup, adding some drops of lemon juice and honey to temper the flavour. She produced a small tray from a cabinet drawer to hold the cup and went from the storage-room with her load.

The next chamber she entered was lit brightly, the lamp casting feeble shadows here and there as it flickered.

"I apologise for my lateness, Lord Húron," the healer addressed the man standing at the window as she placed the salver on a high table.

The man had turned round at the sound of footsteps and now waved her apology off with a kind grin before taking the cup she offered. "Thank you, child." His bearing was proud; his hair and beard snow-white and his smiling eyes keen. The young woman mirrored his expression involuntarily. The lord Húron had been a respected captain of Gondor, permanently disabled in battle two years previously. Yielding his office to another, he had hoped for a quiet retirement, yet a recurring decline to his health confined him to the Houses of Healing. He and her father had been close friends, and after her sire was slain during the Nazgûl's attack on Osgiliath past June, the lord Húron had been as kind as a parent to her.

At present he sat on the bed and sipped the hot tea, savouring the subtle aroma of sage wafting from the cup. After a few moments he spoke again: "Those bone-chilling cries a while ago, what were they?"

The young healer met his serene gaze. "Winged beasts from Mordor," she replied softly, willing her voice to remain steady. "They assailed Captain Faramir and three of his company, but Mithrandir drove them away."

The Lord Húron frowned. "Then they were fortunate indeed," he said finally. "Those fell creatures sounded mighty unkind." His grave voice made the young woman shiver inwardly.

xxxx

It was about two hours later that she found herself freed from duties, coming to stand beneath an arbor grown with lilac-coloured trailing plants. The veil that had covered her hair was now upon her shoulders, worn as one might a shawl, and a thick plait went almost to the middle of her back, dark as rich-brown lebethron-wood. The night was quiet and black and starless, yet the moon shone white and cold in the sky. The healer allowed the latticework to support some of her weight, closing her eyes and concentrating on the simple act of breathing. Too soon, it seemed, solid footfalls punctuated the silence. Her lids fluttered open and she spun on her heel.

"Faramir!"

The dark-haired man clad in the green and brown raiment of the Rangers of Ithilien mirrored her joyous smile, and his grey eyes glinted. With a couple of long strides he reached her and tenderly took her hand in his. Tall though she was, Idrin had to tip her head backwards to meet his gaze. He was beaming at her still, yet the healer's delight was suddenly drained, and she stared up at Faramir with troubled eyes.

"Those men who were with you..."

"Arvinion and Damhir are not among them," he said quickly, guessing her mind. "And all are well," he added as an afterthought.

Her face relaxed, and she studied him, for the first time noting the signs of fatigue traced his features. "You are weary, cousin," the healer spoke softly. "Come and sit a while." She led him to one of the benches of carven wood and iron that dotted the small garden between the nearest wings of the Houses of Healing, surrounded by open passages paved with light stone.

He sat and took a deep breath of the flower-sweet air, absently following the young woman with his eyes as she bade him wait before hurrying towards the storage-rooms. At that moment it suddenly struck him how closely she resembled her mother, his father's sister, who had passed away seventeen winters before. Indeed, she was no longer the child who had accompanied her sick parent to the Houses of Healing so many years previously.

His thoughts did not have the time to wander far: before long the healer had returned, bearing a cup.

"Drink this," she said quietly. "It will soothe you."

Faramir accepted the cup gratefully: even when no words were spoken, his cousin could always at a glance sense when one was unwell, and strove to help if she could. And in truth, he had come to the Houses with half a mind to seek her out and ask for a draught to ease his jadedness. With a warm smile he conveyed his gratitude and took a long sip. Then, as he swallowed, a grimace of distaste warped his features.

"You are certain this is valerian and not hemlock, Idrin?"

The young healer started. Then, she belatedly noted the almost impish flicker in Faramir's eyes. A laugh escaped her lips: witnessing the thoughtful captain entertain such light talk had become a rarity in recent months, and it now cheered her to see him in this good mood. "Indeed. Were I trying to poison you, Faramir, I would have chosen a more subtle way." Still, she should have added more honey.

The corners of Faramir's mouth twitched, and he began to laugh with her. When his chuckle died down, he took a breath and drained the cup.

"I am glad you are well." Idrin's voice sobered and for a while she said no more. "Now, what news from Ithilien?"

Faramir let out a heavy breath. "The Dark Lord is assembling his armies: Orcs and Easterlings and Men of Harad riding mûmakil. We ambushed a company of Southrons on the North Road, yet the great beast with them took many lives in its passage, men on both sides." As he spoke of the mûmak he saw his cousin begin to tense and then, with a private little shake of her head, relax again. The Captain of Gondor regarded her for a moment and fell quiet.

"Have you seen the Halfling who came with Mithrandir?" asked Idrin suddenly. "They say he travelled with Boromir." She paused. The riddling words in her cousins' visions came back to her once more, kindling her thought as they had done when she heard that the wizard's companion was a Halfling. "Yet, if he were the one of whom the rhyme in your dreams spoke, his fate would lie in some deed of valour, surely, and not here in serving a Lord of Men."

Faramir stirred and gazed at her long before speaking, his words slow. "I have seen him, yes. He was a companion of Boromir indeed: their fellowship set out from Imladris but their paths afterwards parted. We found two of that sundered company – two Halflings – in Ithilien, going east."

The healer frowned. "It must be a desperate errand that would take them so far beyond the Anduin." She looked at her cousin thoughtfully, the crease above the bridge of her nose deepening as she sat in silence. "Our doom then lies with them, and with Isildur's Bane – whatever that may be –, or so I read the riddle."

The Captain of the Rangers shifted in his seat as Idrin gazed into the darkness. "So it would appear," he returned.

The healer was quiet for a brief spell, her eyes becoming unfocused. Then she came back to herself. "It's growing late and I should let you go to your rest."

Ease flooded Faramir's features. "I admit I would welcome sleep in a soft bed – it has been a long ten days," he said. He rose and proffered his arm to his cousin. She rested her hand lightly on his forearm, falling in pace beside him as they wove their way out of the gardens and up towards the Citadel.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The sounds of the city came through the open window more and more infrequently as the day waxed towards noon. The room looking out onto the road was sparely furnished, with a long table, four chairs and a sideboard, but a crackling fire burned on the wide hearth at one end.

"It has mended well, Angdan."

Sitting across a tall, heavy-set man, Idrin had fixed her gaze on his outstretched arm, pressing firmly on the bare skin as she ran her hands from elbow to fingertips. Alert to any signs of discomfort or pain, she nodded to herself when he displayed none and looked up at him. "You can return to work, but do not tax yourself – after such a fracture, an arm needs to regain its strength at its own pace."

"It is about time I went back to my smithy," said the swarthy man with a spark in his eyes. "There is much to be done and the lad has been alone there too long." He chuckled quietly to himself, gaze finding the bandages and splint discarded on the table. "I had never thought I would miss my hammer and anvil so."

The healer's lip curled as she began to fasten the flap of her satchel. "Just remember to mind your arm."

"I will," returned the blacksmith. "Thank you, Mistress Idrin."

xxxx

The streets were quiet as the healer made her way up to the sixth circle. With most of the population of the city gone south to refuge, the emptiness felt all-engulfing. Idrin frowned at the deepening gloom – where the sun should be shining, the morning seemed to cling to twilight. She had almost passed the stables by the entrance to the Citadel when the murmur of voices speaking quietly together caught her attention. Recognising Faramir's voice among them, she slowed her pace and pushed open the gate to her right.

When she reached the large building near the towering bastion, the scent of fresh hay mingled with the distinct smell of horses rushed to fill her nostrils. Her nose crinkled and a grimace twisted her features. The healer stopped short before the doorway, snorting a breath, and looked inside.

Stablehands went hither and thither, tending to animals and boxes, and seeing to riding equipment in need of repair. The Rangers of Ithilien who had come with Faramir the previous evening busied themselves with saddling their horses while conversing softly. Of the four men, the Captain of Gondor was nearest the door, but he now kept silent, his gaze low as he adjusted his mount's girth straps with deft fingers.

Finding him, Idrin made to enter but checked herself suddenly, looking down. She contemplated the layer of mucky straw coating the floor for a long moment and then picked up her skirts. Holding the fabric well above the ground, she crossed the threshold carefully, gaze straying to her shoes every now and then. When she came near the four men, she discerned that all were clad in shining mail under their green hooded cloaks. Swords hung at their sides and helms stood on a low bench at their feet. She saw now that Faramir wore a grave expression and recalled hearing rumour of the Steward's Council that had been held earlier that morning. Idrin gazed at him in silence for a few seconds.

"Is it wise to risk so much at Osgiliath?" The healer padded closer.

The Captain of the Rangers turned and looked at her with a keen eye. When he spoke, his tone was cool: "The Lord of the City judges we should not yield the River so lightly." He watched Idrin part her lips in silent exclamation and then close her mouth without uttering a word, inclining her head in recognition. Faramir shifted his gaze.

"My men are at Osgiliath," he continued, his voice no more than a soft whisper and his eyes staring without seeing. "I cannot leave them there to face this Enemy alone." He fell quiet. When he blinked, the Captain of Gondor saw his cousin was still looking at him in silence. He held her gaze.

Idrin returned no answer, but after a moment gave a half-nod. "Be safe," she said, placing a hand lightly on his forearm.

Faramir touched her fingers. "Farewell." His voice was clear and solemn. He reached for his helm, took the horse's reins in his free hand, and led the destrier from his box. Waiting silently in the background, the three Rangers now followed him without speaking, leading their own mounts and offering curt nods of acknowledgement to the young woman.

Idrin turned to watch them as they left the stables, her gaze fixed on their retreating forms. A feeling of dread filled her at that instant, remembering the winged fell creatures and their chilling cries. She shivered and blinked. Willing the black thoughts away, her eyes traced a patch of sunlight on the floor and sought the familiar sight of her surroundings.

The stables were fair and large enough to house three scores of horses, although it had been long since such a number was accommodated. Sturdy pillars upheld the roof on either side of the gate to each box, and connected to them were arched partitions of dark wood that divided one box from the next, low enough to allow the horses a measure of interaction with their neighbours. Narrow windows were cut into the walls at equal intervals to let the light in, and fitted to them were shutters that could be closed to keep out rain and cold. Slender lanterns hung from beams in the ceiling, providing additional illumination when need arose.

Currently, the stables played host to the grey war-horses of the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth who had arrived in Minas Tirith two days earlier. In their presence, they hummed with brisk activity, becoming more busy and full of life than they had been in many a year.

Seeing the stablehands go about their work, Idrin registered the lateness of the hour. She silently berated herself, once more gathering her skirts and making her way outside.

xxxx

The rest of the day was as brown and bleak as the morning that had preceded it, and the sun was veiled by muted clouds. Time and again disembodied cries could be heard from high above the seventh level: the winged beasts of Mordor had returned, circling the stone fortress like ominous harbingers of doom.

"Do you think they can hold Osgiliath?" Idrin turned from the window and the black night outside, her gaze finding the Lord Húron. Then she huffed suddenly, eyes narrowing. "'Twas madness to send them there. Surely it would be more prudent to conserve our force and man the City's walls instead?" It had not been long since the ill news came that the Enemy had sent forth a host to win the passage of Anduin, led by the dreaded Lord of Minas Morgul.

The old man looked at her with a discerning eye. "We cannot afford to lose companies, true, but what was decided cannot be undone. Denethor was aware of the risk." The Steward of Gondor had never been a rash man, even if he did follow his own mind after listening to the counsel of others, yet the current consequences of his pride might prove dire.

Idrin let out a heavy breath. "I fear for him," she said finally. "He does not sleep well as of late." The young woman made to continue but held back her words. Then she sighed. "I only hope we do not pay too dearly for this decision. Enough lives were lost past June." She turned from the old man, gaze fixing on the blackness outside.

Húron studied the healer, taking in the hastily set jaw and crisp movements, and after a few moments of silence joined her by the window.

xxxx

The next day brought no comfort. Word came that the armies of the Dark Lord had crossed the River and the company of Faramir were retreating to the Rammas Echor, greatly outnumbered.

It was one hour after sunset that Idrin found herself standing before the short cabinets in a storage-room in the Houses of Healing, pouring the thick content of a pot into shallow jars. The golden-yellow preparation gave off a scent not unlike that of pine-tree sap, mild and pleasant. The healer caught herself humming softly as she worked, sealing the containers and tying small labels to the wide neck of each before placing them on the long shelf above the cabinets.

The task of cleaning and tidying up that followed left her mind free to wander – the humming ceased and her expression gradually became sober, eyes straying to the small window facing eastwards as the news from that morning returned to the forefront of her consciousness. There had been no tidings since then, no word to soothe the thought or end the hopeless waiting of those whose loved ones fought. The healer drew a long breath. When she went from the room, catching the eye of a senior healer in farewell, Idrin was quiet and her face pensive.

She walked up the sloping tunnel that led to the seventh circle, her thought turning to the small library standing near the south wall of the Citadel: books always managed to school her restlessness. Situated by the King's House and facing the White Tower, the library was built by Ecthelion II for his wife, Almiel¹ – an elegant structure of pale-coloured stone, surrounded by well-tended copses of low shrubbery, and filled with a valuable collection of reading material.

The young woman spoke words of greeting to the guard standing at the gate; he inclined his head and stepped aside, letting her pass. As the lamp-lit tunnel fell away behind her, Idrin once more turned her gaze to the east, and there, upon the great battlement that crowned the bastion, saw a lone dark figure standing on the stone seat beneath the embrasure-sill in the wall. She frowned, wondering whyever a child was in the Citadel – the few lads currently left in Minas Tirith never ventured past the seventh gate.

"Good evening."

The voice was not that of a boy, and as Idrin's eyes adjusted to the low light beyond the tunnel, she saw that the small person's head was turned towards her. He was clad in the black and silver livery of the Tower, and by him was a tall helm. It was no Man-child, the healer realised, but the Halfling who had come to the City with Mithrandir.

"Good evening," she returned, walking towards the stone seat and discerning that he was gazing at her with the same curiosity with which she was looking at him. "You are Peregrin, are you not?"

"I am," replied the Halfling. "Peregrin Took, or Pippin, if you like." He looked long at the young woman as she moved closer with easy grace, taking in the garb she wore. "You are a healer?" He had caught glimpses of the women serving in the Houses of Healing while acquainting himself with the city.

"Indeed, I am," she answered. "My name is Idrin."

Pippin gazed at her, wondering at her courtly bearing. After a few moments, he caught himself and looked away, but the young woman's eyes were fixed on the eastern skyline. He spun on his heel and his spirits plummeted.

There, above the Mountains of Shadow stretched massive clouds, dark and brown and touched with crimson-red. They looked ominous, brimming with blazing flashes, but no rumbling noise issued from them and there was only a distant impact to the air, like a clap of thunder with no sound.

A sudden breath of wind ruffled Pippin's almost golden mop of hair,² and he sighed. "It's terrible to simply stand and wait for battle to come. Being idle makes everything look so bleak."

"It does," the young woman agreed, and as she turned her eyes towards the great curve of the Anduin, the Hobbit saw a shadow pass over her face. "And not knowing if your loved ones are safe makes it worse. My brothers and cousin are at Osgiliath."

"My friends are in Rohan, and I would dearly like to see them again," said Pippin. "I suppose I might, if King Théoden comes."

The healer did not speak, regarding the silent Halfling, but after a moment she shook her head. "Come, Master Peregrin, it does no good to dwell on such thoughts." She paused. "I am bound for the Citadel's library. Would you care to join me?"

Pippin blinked and gazed at her in wonder, for he had understood that the library in question was intimate to the Steward.

His companion looked at him and her lips twitched. "The Steward's family and their guests are free to use it," she said.

Understanding dawned on the Halfling's face, and he regarded her closely. "You are kin to the Lord?"

"His sister was my mother," answered Idrin. "But will you not come with me?"

Pippin looked over the fields of the Pelennor and darkness weighed on his heart again. "I would be poor company," he said. "My thought is heavy this evening, and that's why I'm out of doors – the night air might help clear my head."

The young woman nodded and took a step back from the wall. "I bid you good-night, then."

Watching her walk towards the library, Pippin knew he would find no rest that night. Gandalf was gone and the East looked more menacing than ever. He turned his gaze to Osgiliath and the Mountains of Shadow beyond, and his thought went to Frodo and Sam.

* * *

><p>¹ Tolkien does not give us the name of Ecthelion II's wife; naming her <em>Almiel <em>is my taking creative licence. The small library situated in the Citadel is also of my invention.

² '. . . and [Peregrin Took I has] got hair that's almost golden.' (_The History of Middle-earth: Sauron Defeated_, Part One, Chapter XI: The Epilogue)


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Idrin started to wakefulness, her heart racing. She felt warmth around her and was calmed somewhat, remembering she lay in her bed. Her chamber was dark and no light peeked in through the shutters: the sun had not yet risen. The vague, unpleasant sensation which had caused her to wake lingered, and the young woman slid out of bed to pad across the thick rug to the window.

Opening the shutters to a crack, she saw the grey veil of dawn outside the Steward's lodgings in the Citadel had not yet lifted. The early morning seemed hazy as with a brown mist. A low, rolling sound rent the silence then, making Idrin frown and peer outside. Her window faced south, commanding a sweeping view of the Pelennor fields and, farther off, of the glittering bend of the Anduin, yet she could see nothing that would explain the dull noise resonating from afar.

Stepping back from the window, the young woman felt the unexpected coolness of metal against her skin and turned promptly, steadying the teetering ornament. Carefully, she set the small sculpture away from the night-table's edge and peered at it. The exquisitely detailed bronze hummingbird hailed back to the ruling days of Mardil Voronwë, when he built the Steward's House in the early years after the loss of king Eärnur,¹ her aunt Ivreth had said when she gave it to Idrin. The healer had been partial to it as a child and still regarded it with fondness.

Glancing towards the window, the young woman lit a candle and sat at her dressing table. Her hands found the small ornate box in front of the looking-glass, light fingers tracing the designs on the lid. She opened it and as she gazed at what lay inside, her countenance became more sober. Silence filled the bedchamber again. Idrin did not stir for a few moments. Then, she drew the lid down and stood, turning from the dressing table.

Finishing her morning toilet, she dressed and went down to the dining hall for the first meal of the day. There, a brazier of charcoal burned with yellow flame, the shadows it cast dancing on the finely carved cabinets and elaborate hangings on the wall.

Sitting alone at the dark-oak table, breakfast was a silent affair, but it had not always been so. Idrin could recall laughter and good cheer in that same hall, during those times when one – or both – of her cousins would break their fast with her, when no duties kept them away from the City. And it was many times when her uncle and she sat at meals together, although their talk then was quiet and they mostly ate in companionable silence. Boromir's death and the growing threat in the East weighed down on the Steward recently, however, and the young woman seldom chanced upon him at the breakfast table anymore.

As though in answer to her thoughts, the tall, unbent figure of Denethor entered the hall. He looked worn and his dark eyes were sunken.

"Uncle, good morning," Idrin offered, studying the silent man who advanced slowly towards the table.

He turned to her and the healer thought she saw a faint twitch of lips light the pale face. Yet, a moment later the flickering expression vanished and grimness took its place. "I wonder," the Steward murmured to himself, but the softly spoken words did not reach the young woman's ears.

She had been looking at him closely. "You have not slept well again," she said gently. "Come, sit. I will send for another plate."

A dull rumble coming from afar was heard, and Idrin turned to look through the large window opening north to the view of the Court of the Fountain. A small crease settled on the bridge of her nose. When her eyes met Denethor's, his gaze was steady.

"The Enemy has taken the Pelennor Wall," he said.

xxxx

The veiled sun was climbing in the sky when a great noise filled the streets of the City. The sharp sound of hooves on stone and the thud of heavy wheels, mingled with the occasional rise and fall of men's voices, ascended slowly towards the high levels of Minas Tirith. An orderly line of wains drawn by sturdy horses halted before the gate of the Houses of Healing, flanked by a dozen grim men on horseback. At the front, riding by the second wagon, was the brilliant figure of Gandalf the White, and he alone seemed unweary.

As the men dismounted, one hurried to seek the Warden of the Houses while the others made it their task to help the less gravely injured onto solid ground.

It was not long before the soldier returned, followed closely by the grey-haired, tall man who was the chief healer, and the old wife Ioreth. With a swift glance at the wains and their load, the Warden bade some of the men go with the elderly woman and fetch litters to carry those who had difficulty walking. He stood motionless, watching as the men returned and the wounded soldiers began to dwindle and disappear into the Houses.

"So it begins," he murmured quietly, his darkened eyes fixed upon the retreating figures of the survivors from the Causeway Forts, a hand twitching momentarily against the deep-blue fabric of his robes.

"Yes," came the wizard's even voice from his side as he too gazed after them, "and the hours to come shall be long, Master Warden." With that he turned and led Shadowfax from the gate, handing the reins to one of the stablehands who had come to take wains and horses away.

xxxx

The air was thick with the smell of strong spirits. Idrin bent over the wounded Ranger, fingers running lightly along the crude bandage wrapped around his head. It was stained rusty brown. Carefully, she removed the long strip of fabric and took a good look at the wound. The gash running from his hairline to his left eye was deep, but no fluid leaked from it and the edges were smooth – a sign that it wouldn't need stitching.

The healer took a pad of gauze from the tray on the stand by the man's bed and soaked it with a clear spirit. The soldier sat up straighter, anticipating the sting. He winced as the liquid came in contact with his skin but made no complaint. A few moments later, Idrin folded the gauze and began scrubbing gently along the edges of the wound.

"'Twas terrible." After a long while of following her movements with his eyes without uttering a word, the man finally spoke. His voice was low. "Never before have I seen so large a horde. Orcs and Southrons and Easterlings. And there were wolves, those giant wolves from Wilderland. Bearlike in the face and long-muzzled with sharp fangs. Never before had we known them to come so far south. They tore at the flesh and ripped men to pieces as though they were rag dolls."

His dark eyes had become glassy while he spoke, but in the quiet that ensued he seemed to come back to himself and focus on the face of the woman tending to him. He shook his head. "Forgive me, Mistress Healer," he said. "You must have heard this ghastly tale more than enough times today."

Idrin paused in the middle of pressing a clean patch of gauze to the salve she had applied to the Ranger's wound and looked at him, absently noting the flecks of dried blood crusting his short beard.

"Do not apologise, Mablung," she said. "Speaking of it will unburden your mind." She placed a bandage over the pad of gauze and began wrapping it around his head. "It has been many years since such accounts succeeded in frightening me," she added: "growing up in a household of men makes one familiar with the gruesome bits of battle." Her father and brothers and cousins had always taken care to limit the grim details during talk of skirmishes in her presence, but they did not coddle her. The thought called to mind an image of cool grey eyes and the semblance of laughter, and the healer's face dimmed for a moment.

She secured the bandage carefully with a small clasping pin and looked at Mablung again, this time studying the long wound on his side which she had previously treated and sewn. Then she rose from the chair she had been sitting in. "Now, rest," she said, her tone gentle.

The Ranger closed his eyes, and Idrin turned to the tray on the night-table, picking it up and carrying it to one of the tiered shelves placed along the walls away from the beds. Once its contents were stored in their rightful place, the used bandages and gauze discarded into the nearby disposal basket, the healer took the tray to the adjacent storage-room to be washed and returned to the sick hall, a cup in her hands.

She made her way to a bed near the narrow window. The young man lying on it turned to her as she stopped by him, and his eyes fixed on the cup.

"This will take the pain and bring sleep," she said and slipped a hand under his head, helping him lift it.

He drank from the cup slowly, emptying it in four long sips, and lowered his head onto the pillow once more. "Thank you." The broken whisper was drowned in a violent fit that contorted his face, and his eyes squeezed shut.

Idrin touched him gently on the shoulder in a gesture meant to comfort, watching his broken arm stiffen under the hardened bandage that held it fast. When his body relaxed, she withdrew her hand and opened her mouth to speak.

The soldier grasped at her fingers. "Please, stay." There was urgency in his weak voice and his eyes bore into hers in an unspoken plea. "Until the pain goes," he went on, attempting to gather his manners and sound more calm.

Idrin closed her mouth and sat in the chair by the bed, setting the cup she held aside. He was young, she observed, not even in his second decade, and his clean-shaven face made this more evident. This battle had probably been his first.

Long seconds passed in silence. "I had always thought that the Rammas could not be breached," the young man spoke again in a whisper and then said no more, staring far-off without seeing.

Idrin watched him quietly as his eyes drifted closed and his breathing became soft and even. Then, she turned from the peaceful face and rose, looking about the ward. Her eyes flitted from bed to door, the early touches of anxiety suddenly settling on her features.

"Mistress Idrin."

The young voice drew her attention and she turned to see a boy looking up at her. She recognised him as the son of one of the Guards of the Citadel.

"Your brothers send word that they have returned and are well, lady," the lad continued promptly.

The young woman beamed at him and her face was lit. "And the Lord Faramir?"

The boy took a second before answering. "He was wounded," he said hesitatingly. "The Prince Imrahil took him to the White Tower; I am to find Master Neston. That is all I know, lady."

Idrin's countenance darkened and she was silent. "Thank you, Bergil," she said at last. As the lad took his leave, the healer noted the deepening evening outside, calculating the time to the end of her work hours. But the wounded come into the Houses of Healing were many and there was much to do: it had grown very late when she was finally free to go to her rest and by then her sole thought was of sleep.

* * *

><p>¹ In Tolkien's works, there is no explicit mention concerning the lodgings of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor. Given the elevation of the Stewards from chief counsellors to the King to rulers in the King's absence after the demise of Eärnur, it is plausible that lodgings were built to accommodate them and their families in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. Since the living quarters for the Kings and their families were named <em>the King's House<em>, it seems fitting that the living quarters for the Ruling Stewards should bear the name _the Steward's House_.


End file.
